


Ex Machina

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love song to Berlin - and freedom - in three acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Machina

"Als ich das Vaterland aus den Augen verloren hatte, fand ich es im Herzen wieder."  
\- Heinrich Heine

 **i**

They say you never miss something until it's gone.

But what if it never leaves you? What if it stays with you, haunts your every waking hour, so that you have no chance to miss it? How then can you truly appreciate that which you have, when you are denied the chance to grieve for it?

Ach, just listen to me. I'm not usually this maudlin. I can be a hell of a lot more verbose, but I'm not drunk and so… And so I am outwardly silent while my mind runs on in ridiculous loops of thought.

I blame this city. It always brings out the worst – and the best – in me. There is something about Berlin that is indescribably perfect, despite the fact that half of the place is a fucking eyesore. Even now, over ten years later, the East is still like some ugly pestilence creeping over the river and nibbling at the Tiergarten. The Wall kept all that shit back, swept it all away like we were so much rubbish: out of sight but never out of mind. Hell, we tried to bring attention to ourselves: the TV tower pokes at the sky like a hypodermic grazing the surface of Heaven, and on sunny days it blinds the West. Dazzle. Look at us. Remember us. We are happy. See?

Funny isn't it, that we – the poor relation – kept three of the greatest museums in the world inside our little prison. One of the first things I ever did when I made it out of the DDR was to come back to Berlin; and when I got there, I went to the Egyptian museum in Charlottenburg. A beautiful place it is, all velvet darkness and angled spotlights: a chocolate-box of a museum, a visual feast – but so sterile, so cold. And in that sense, so Western. Repackaged goods, remodelled to appeal, peddled and pushed… Maybe I feel my age, or at least the weight of ages, but I prefer my history untainted and unpainted, stark and glaring, the challenge of the past meets the shock of the new. But even the new grows old, and ceases to shock; and in time it passes from us into history.

Wheels within wheels.

The reason for all this meandering thought hulks on the banks of Museum Island just ahead of us. Lying well back, almost ashamed of its past; its arms reach out to embrace the visitor, flanking the empty courtyard. It fronts onto the Spree, the city's river cold and cutting about it. Bullet holes and scarred masonry mark the passing of defeat and subjugation; attempts at repair are occasional and only serve to cast this glory of the East further into the shadows from whence it came.

In total contrast, just down Unter den Linden, the Reichstag lifts its glass dome to the heavens. For years it has been sleeping while the government took its seat in shining, perfect, tedious little Bonn. But the Reichstag was born in fire, and its first death was in fire; now, like the bird of light, it rises again as the symbol of this city.

For rebirth to take place, there must first be a very real death. Not the slow strangulation of the past fifty years, but an act of brutal decisiveness. Where once there was a street that echoed with ghosts, now there are façades of shops considered to be a capitalist's wet dream: Prada, Hermès, Rolls Royce. Old money, discreet and sleek, tramples the bloated corpse of the past. Change is good: stop the rot; start afresh. Forget what you were: what you could become is far superior...

I'm all for capitalism. A childhood of forced Communist ideology and a youth of looking over one's shoulder at shapes in the dark does wonders for the psyche. The grass is always greener on the other side, you see: especially if the soil you stand upon is red.

Except I'm not certain now that the soil was as red as it was made out to be. Grey, perhaps, as if a layer of ash settled upon the city and entombed it. Images from Pompeii come instantly to mind: people curved and distorted, the dog trying to escape its chain, as the volcano destroyed their world and then buried them for the future.

That's what it was like in the East, except we lived through it in a half-Dreaming, functioning and questioning and longing, but it was all so… grey. And walking beside the Spree on this cold snap of a February morning, it reminds me too much of what I left behind. The river glitters, but it's grey. The sky is heavy with cloud. The museums, in all their raddled glory, are touched with grey though the brickwork is honey-coloured.

This was a huge mistake. Why ever did I think I'd find an answer here?

Because a museum is the storehouse of the past, and from the past we can learn about the future… and, as some long-dead writer once said, because history is cyclical. It repeats itself and repeats itself, an endless chorus ad libitum, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.

I watch our reflections as we walk up the few steps from the courtyard to the main door. Glass-fronted, smoky and chromed, the entrance tries for the Parisian chic of the Louvre's idiotic pyramid: but here, amidst the stern architecture of the Weimar Republic, it looks merely utilitarian.

I look utilitarian, too. The dark glass gives back my image: workman's boots, thick-soled and clumpy; black jeans, the hint of flesh above the scoop of my black vest, and a black jacket fastened against the early morning chill. I could be anybody; sometimes I'm nobody. I can be overlooked if I choose.

The same cannot be said of my companion on this little trip down memory lane. Till is… Well. How can one describe a force of nature? He could stand frozen and still command attention. Maybe I see him in the same way as I regard this building: earth and stone, utterly solid and impassive and yes, patient – but in possession of a sense of history and beauty, even if he does not aspire to either in the conventional manner. A force of nature, I said. Ugh, that always suggests cataclysmic things, like hurricanes and volcanoes and tsunami. No, he's not like that -

And while I stare at our reflection, lost in thought, Till puts one paw on the glass door and gives it a shove. The image slips away, and I blink as a blast of warm air hits us from the grille set just inside the entrance. I follow him in, slouching past the bookshop with its hideously expensive academic tomes gathering dust beside the cheap and cheerful guidebooks. Till pauses halfway up the stairs to glance at one of the displays of reproductions. God knows why he does that. He can buy an original piece of ancient crap if he wants. He's got one already: moulded terracotta and faded slip, Roman or Romanesque, I don't remember. He did tell me, once. I wasn't listening; it wasn't important.

Neither is whatever it was that attracted his attention today. He loses interest and approaches the cash desk, pays for us both – good grief, several Marks rather than the sop of a few pfennigs that the DDR used to charge – then, without waiting for me, he strides off to the left.

I undo my jacket. Like all museums, this one is too warm. Outside I was too cold. I wish there was a happy medium, but there's no such thing, is there? I sigh, shove my hands into my pockets, and go into the hall that houses the treasure we've come to see.

Till stands in the centre of the room, his head back very slightly as he stares up the grand staircase at the colonnade. The hall has a strangely disorientating effect, especially when there are few people in it: the floor is a dark dappled marble, and against it, the white and shadowed grey is bleakly, starkly, contrasted. This is the Great Altar of Pergamon, removed from Turkey with slightly more dignity than were the Elgin Marbles from Greece. It was the pride of the East: I remember when visiting scholars would cross the checkpoint with their twenty-four hour passes just to get a glimpse of this.

Now, like all else in the West, it's all too accessible. Does that make it less worthwhile, less important? Not to my silent companion, anyway. Today he's been about as talkative as the sculpture that surrounds us; but I'm sure I saw a flicker of life pass over those impassive features just now.

I take a tour around the hall. There's a little sheet of paper that explains the iconography, but I don't want to know. If I searched my memory hard enough, I could probably remember what it all means, but I'm happy just to look and not to question who or what or why. It's a mighty work. To me, it's a symbol of the DDR as much as was the Wall. Both made of stone; both immense and expensive; both practical yet illusory. And, of course, the theme of the Great Altar is that of a battle – of the celestial kind rather than our mere mortal efforts, but a war nonetheless.

I move past Till and follow the direction of the stampeding, struggling gods and giants over to the north side of the frieze. This has always been my favourite section: there's a fish emerging from the waves, its body frozen and twisted in the stone, its fins spiky and its eyes and mouth wide. It jumps to the defence of some ancient deity I know not the name of; a tiny fish against a huge giant. I've always liked it, and as there's hardly anybody around, I do what I've wanted to do for years – I put out my hand and touch the fish.

The marble is not as cool as I supposed. It's as smooth and as warm as human flesh, and this surprises me so much that I jerk back from it. The fish stares at me mockingly, so I prod at it, feeling the detail of the carving, the roughened texture of its scales, the lines in its fins, the curve of its mouth. Satisfied, but a little disappointed now I've finally touched it, I take my hand away and look at the whole of this section again.

Poor fish, trapped in the stone. And the gods, too – they're beautiful, their expressions both furious and incandescent while the earth-bound giants wear a look of suffering – but they're all trapped, their movements halted and kaleidoscoped from that day centuries ago when the stonemason picked up his hammer. And even though I stand amidst such beauty, I feel a tearing, empty sadness that I don't think I fully understand.

I sense rather than hear Till's footsteps behind me. "It's a myth," he says suddenly; and I look over at him before glancing up at the frieze.

"I know that."

He gives me a patient look. "Not that. Freedom is a myth."

I blink. I hate it when he does this. Till can spend the entire day in total silence, seemingly off in a world of his own; then he says the one thing you least expect, just to prove that he's been with you all along.

"I wasn't thinking about freedom," I say.

"You were." He tilts his head to one side so that his hair falls into his eyes. It tangles in his eyelashes. I wish he'd comb it back. He doesn't.

"I was thinking of – other things."

"I know you," he tells me. "You get this look on your face whenever you dream of running away. It's there now."

"Bollocks is it!"

At last he tosses his head, flicks away his fringe. He's serious. "Is it this place? You wear that expression less these days… At one point all you held in front of you was a cage. Ask the others; they'll tell you the same. I knew you'd run before you did it."

"Stop talking shit." My laugh is hollow. I had no idea I was that transparent: the Invisible Man, all too visible. "Next you'll start going on about how we're all shadows on a cave wall or something," I mutter, and then catch myself hoping that I got the reference right. Like it matters. Some dead Roman guy, anyway.

"Greek," Till corrects gently. "Plato."

Great, now I'm talking to myself. Not quite to myself, but…

"And maybe we are shadows on a cave wall," he continues musingly, and I grind my teeth. He's in an arsey mood. I can do without this.

"The problem with shadows, y'see, is that they're tied to the thing that casts them," Till says. "So they can't run away. There's no escape."

I roll my eyes. Philosophy 101 with Herr Professor-Doctor Lindemann. Sign me up now for the whole damn programme. "Anyway," I say, "these shadows are in a cave. No sunlight in a cave, is there? So the shadows are all in the imagination."

Till's expression is priceless, but amusement wins out. "Well, yes… But, Richard, the cave has a fire in it."

Yes. How stupid of me. Of course it does.

I sigh audibly and stamp off, coming to a halt in front of the four fragmentary horses that trample a fallen giant beneath their thundering hooves. I stare at them until my eyes water with concentration. The brightness of the morning through the skylights and the muted gleam of the lighting make my shadow split into three before me, one solid and two a faded grey.

"Why the fuck is there a fire in a cave?" I finally snap, fixing on the one thing that'll guarantee me an idiotic sort of row rather than an excursus as to why I'm feeling so damnably trapped.

"For heat. For cooking. To cast shadows." Till stands beside me, skimming over the information sheet. Occasionally he looks about him as if suspecting that the sculptures will get up and swap places while he's reading, just to piss him off. "Fucking idiots," is his comment as he finishes reading and stuffs the paper into his coat pocket.

"A century of German scholarship, and all you can say is 'fucking idiots'?"

He shrugs like he's carrying the whole damn world on his shoulders. "They have their theories. I have mine. Just as with all else, it's a matter of perception." He gives me a slow smile. "Except you know that I'm always right."

"What if you're not?" I burst out as he wanders off; and the note in my voice is enough to make him turn and frown at me. "What if you're not right," I say again. "What if everything you said, everything you believed, was an untruth?"

"It wouldn't be, because I believed it."

"Your faith is marvellous to behold, then."

Another, darker, frown. "I have no faith, Richard, you know that… What's wrong?"

I wave my hands in a futile gesture. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. Forget it."

"You can hardly say something like that and then expect me to ignore you."

I'm sinking, so I turn away from him. "But you do, Till. You do it all the time."

"Self-preservation," he says abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "It's nothing personal. You know that, too. You of all people know about self-preservation. Fight or flight, isn't that what they say? You did both. When one doesn't work, try the other…"

"And when that doesn't work?" I ask softly.

He gives me a terrible, twisted smile and walks away.

I catch up with him just beyond the end of the Ishtar Gate. At the end of this wing are a series of small rooms, and he's skulking in the corner of the furthest, gazing at a huge clay tablet that covers the wall.

"Never knew you were an expert on cuneiform," I say after a quick glance at the wedge-shaped marks stamped into the tablet.

"Actually, it's Akkadian," Till responds, his voice muffled.

"If I wanted a fucking tour I'd have paid at the desk." My nose twitches as I catch the familiar scent of Marlboro Reds. "You're not -"

He drops his hand and yes, he is. The crazy bastard is smoking in a museum. Instinctively I look up for the alarms; and sure enough, it's blinking its little red light at us, as if waking up and wondering if it should scream.

"Till," I say sternly.

"Richard." He tilts his head back fractionally as he takes a drag and I watch the wings of hair slip over his face. The light from the cigarette glows, and for a moment he is daze-painted, as vibrant and as angular as an El Greco. His eyes close in some small pleasure, and he smiles, immediately softening my last impression.

"Are you trying to cheer me up or something?"

He flicks ash at the Akkadian. "I'm just having a smoke."

"In a museum."

"I have a reputation to uphold."

"Reputation…?" I parrot, trailing after him when he gets bored with cuneiform. "What the hell are you talking about? Till!"

He pauses, swinging around to face me and then walking backwards when I get closer. "You also know my reputation. See what I mean? There is no freedom. I'm limited by the way you perceive me, by the way all of you perceive me."

I wonder if I've missed something here. I hate it when he does this, too: not content with his ability to read my mind, he can take my words and bend them to his will, then throws them back at me and manages to convince me that what I really meant was white, not black. I shake my head slightly and say, "But that suggests that I imprison you, that I don't allow you to change, and I do -"

He drops the cigarette half-smoked. "Funny, isn't it," he muses in a tone that indicates that it's anything but funny, "that women always think they can change a man by restricting his options, and yet you say you'd never impose limits on me, that I change all by myself."

"You don't need anybody," I say boldly.

Till glances down at the smouldering cigarette, then grinds it out beneath his heel. "That's not true. There's always been somebody I've needed; and wanting someone isn't exactly freedom, either."

I pace around a display cabinet and run my index finger over the glass, feeling the smooth chill against my skin. "That's not what I meant. You take women because they're available – it's an addiction, not a need. Not a true need, anyway."

He watches me, quietly. "Fucking on its own merits has a certain freedom. But you're right – I don't need it as much as I like to believe I do. However, what remains is a need – a craving, even – for somebody. Somebody unavailable."

I feel my reaction low down in the pit of my stomach. It's like a depth-charge going off. "Don't think you can seduce me," I warn suddenly. "I know you too well."

"That surely makes seduction more piquant," he says, looking at me as I come to a halt directly in front of him – close: too close for friendship and not yet close enough for anything else. His voice rumbles rich and deep, troubling me far more than I'd ever let on.

"It's always sweet the first time," he says softly, "but when you know your lover, pretence is stripped away and ambition tumbles forwards."

Out-manoeuvred, I take refuge in the one option left to me, and I call his bluff. I kiss him. Then I pull back and smirk at his expression. He looks stunned. I worry. Maybe I'm a crap snog. Maybe we're about to get thrown out. Maybe I should just shut the fuck up, but it's too late: "Follow that," my traitorous voice says, and I'm horrified to hear a distinctly flirtatious tone taking the edge from the sharpness of the delivery.

One thing I should really remember: don't challenge Till. Within the space of a heartbeat he's pulled me into his arms and is kissing me. Properly.

Help?

 

 ****

ii

The waitress slams our drinks down onto the table as if she holds us personally responsible for all the world's problems. She scowls at Till's packet of cigarettes; so, very politely, he asks if she would like one. I've witnessed hundreds of girls going weak-kneed at such an invitation, but clearly the waitress has better taste in men. Instead of wasting her breath on a reply, she reaches across to the next table and picks up the tiny 'No Smoking' sign, and then she drops it down in front of Till. He shrugs and meekly tidies away the cigarettes.

I'm vaguely amused by the whole thing, and so I ask, "Why is it that you'll break the law in a museum but not in a café? If you're desperate for a smoke we can just change table."

He pours his beer into the glass provided. Rather incongruously, it's emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo. I'm pondering the ramifications of this when he says, "I don't want to smoke. I want to sit here and be a good boy."

"For once," I add thoughtlessly, fiddling with the little jar of sugar-cubes in front of me.

He gives me a look that strips about six layers of skin from my face, then lowers his voice to a basso profundo purr: "I thought I was remarkably good."

"Guh." I pull the jar towards me and open the lid, scooping out three cubes – one white, two brown – and dump them into my cup of coffee. The teaspoon's surface is smudged from its time in the dishwasher, and I look at it with a moue of distaste. Till takes the spoon from me and polishes it on his sweater until it shines with a glossy sparkle, and then he very seriously turns it around and offers it back to me as if he were a page holding out a sword to his knight.

"Thanks." I accept the spoon and sit it in the coffee. Despite the heat of the liquid, the sugar cubes haven't melted yet, so I absently use the tongs to pick out more from the jar, arranging them one atop the other on the table. They're those posh sugar cubes that resemble dice, with curved edges and fat glittering crystals that wink in the light. Their shape makes it almost impossible to balance more than four, so I'm secretly pleased when I manage to ease a fifth cube onto my sugar totem-pole.

Far from being impressed by this achievement, Till steals the fifth cube and so accidentally knocks down the totem-pole. He's unrepentant, popping the stolen cube into his mouth and crunching it loudly. From the other side of the counter, the waitress glares at us.

"You'll get us thrown out," I say in an undertone.

"What for, molesting sugar cubes?" He sounds irritated. "I should probably tell you that I crossed the road at a red light twice on my way here. Oh, and I didn't pay for a ticket on the tram, either… Just spit it out, Richard. I don't like playing this game."

Finally, I stir my coffee to avoid looking at him. "I'm not. I mean, this isn't funny. I'm just – confused." The spoon clatters onto the saucer and I watch the froth spin round on the top of the coffee.

"Confused." Till tops up his beer and sips at it. "Outwardly, you're managing just fine. Beautiful daughter, a lovely wife -" and I wince at the neutral inflection that slides into his voice when he mentions Caron, "and you have forsaken us for a penthouse in New York…"

I grit my teeth. "It's not exactly a penthouse, you know that -"

"Oh, and you're a rock star," he finishes. "Not as much of a rock star as I am, what with my wild behaviour of smoking in museums and all, but yeah, you'll do." He stops sipping at the beer and drinks it back in three long swallows.

"I thought you'd understand," I say bitterly. "I should have talked to Paul instead."

He bangs the glass down onto the table and leans over, forcing me through sheer strength of will to look him in the eyes. "I do understand," he tells me softly. "All you wanted was to leave here, and then when you did, you just came back. You waited so long for a family, but you never counted on it being fractured across two continents. On the face of it, you have everything you set out to find, but it's not the way you dreamed of it, and so it's not enough, is it?"

I take a swig of coffee and grimace. It's not sweet enough, but I drink it anyway.

"Still confused?" Till asks, raising one eyebrow mockingly.

"It's not quite that simple," I say stiffly.

"Show me something that is," he mutters, looking dolefully at the empty glass and then signalling the waitress for another.

I sniff, casting about for an answer. "Our friendship," I say eventually.

He looks up at me sharply, suspicious, and then he huffs with repressed laughter, his expression going from guarded to sweetly-indulgent in a matter of seconds. I like it when he laughs with his eyes; it's quite irresistible, so I smile too.

"Richard," he says, covering my hand with his own and leaning close again so I get the full benefit of the fading glow of his laughter, "nothing is simple about our relationship."

He announces this just as the waitress comes over with another beer. I fidget and try to pull back my hand, but the bastard grips me tight, fluttering his eyelashes. It didn't escape my notice that he substituted 'relationship' for 'friendship'. I'm not sure what that means, if indeed it means anything. I make another attempt to free myself, conscious of the curious look the waitress is giving me.

"Would you like another drink?" Till asks, his eyes dancing with amusement.

I consider swearing at him and resist the urge to blurt out to the waitress that my friend is being a childish idiot, and by the way, I'm married – but I realise the futility of such a move. After all, I kissed him first. Never mind that it's a symptom of my confusion. I still did it.

"Orange juice," I mumble instead; and the waitress goes away again. Till doesn't let go of my hand. When I look at him, he's smiling gently.

"You always save public displays of affection for Khira," he says. "Are you afraid of what people might say if you showed affection to your friends?"

"Like Paul and Schneider?" I snap.

He picks at the label on the beer bottle. "That's more than friendship; but yes, why not be as open as Paul? He's certainly taught Schneider how to relax." He gives me another lopsided grin. "No puns intended."

I shake my head at him. "The kind of freedom I'm questioning has nothing to do with whether or not I can hug my friends."

Till lowers his gaze, saying "I disagree" very quietly before he withdraws his hand from mine. I immediately miss the warmth of the contact and so I cradle the coffee-cup against my palms, finding it a poor substitute. We both concentrate on our drinks for a while, and I switch straight from the coffee to orange juice when the waitress brings it over.

"I don't think sex will solve this problem," I say eventually. "Not that it's really a problem. I mean, it is – but it's such a little thing. I'm just being stupid. It'll pass."

"Until the next time."

We lapse into silence, staring at nothing in particular. Till needs a cigarette badly. I can tell, because he's resting his chin on his hand and has folded his fingers inwards, and he's nibbling the knuckles. He's capable of enormous will-power, but for some reason he can never give up smoking. For that matter, neither can I – but I've got an addictive personality, and he only craves a few things. I still like the nicotine rush; Till smokes because he's bored, or nervous, or both. I begin to wonder which state he's currently inhabiting, and then I have my answer.

"Come to bed with me," Till says suddenly.

I stare at him as if he's just suggested an assassination attempt on Gerhard Schroeder. Actually, I imagine that killing the Chancellor would have less emotional fall-out than Till's offer. "Pardon?"

He knows I heard well enough the first time, and so he scowls, embarrassed. "You want to belong, Rich. Just like I do; only it takes us in different ways. You've tried everything else. Why not try me?"

Part of me thinks that he's having a laugh. He couldn't possibly be serious. Then it strikes me that I'm actually considering his offer, and I wonder why. I must be more confused than I thought, because my memory takes to reminding me of all the times we've crashed out on beds and floors in a drunken heap, only to wake in the morning to find Paul and Schneider helplessly tangled together and with Till curled up beside me, snuggled in against my side as if he were seeking warmth. I kind of got used to it. I didn't even mind the days when I'd wake up with his hair tickling my face and the heavy heat of his arm flung across my belly.

But like a coward, I shove aside the thoughts and say, "I don't know."

I sense his deflation rather than see it. He's remarkably good at hiding his bulk, curving his shoulders in towards his chest and lowering his head. Even his breathing becomes more shallow, each breath taken from the chest and not the diaphragm so that he scarcely moves.

I feel unbelievably guilty, and so I ask, "How long have you… liked me like that?"

He's studying the table with interest, running his forefinger over the surface with enough force to drill straight through. He affects not to hear my question, and when I prompt him, he stirs and shrugs and says, "Ten minutes. Ten years. Forever. What does it matter?"

I nearly say that it does matter, then I realise that it doesn't at all. I know Till well enough to understand the myriad complex layers he stacks up above himself, and I'm fortunate in that I've seen him with defences down on a few occasions. That he can trust me so much is surely indication of his depth of feeling. I'm just not certain that my own need matches his. God knows, I don't want to be responsible for hurting him even more.

"Nothing will change," he says softly, as if reading my mind again. "Remember: it's all a matter of perception." He gives me a hesitant smile. "I want to show you the freedom you crave. I want to share it with you. Please."

He hasn't noticed the waitress standing behind him with the bill in her hand. She looks from him to me with interest, and so with an audience for this, one of the most important decisions of my life, I stumble over my answer. I have to take a deep breath to force the word out: "Yes."

The waitress gives us a maternal smile. "Thank God for that," she says.

Till tips her forty percent before we leave.

 

**iii**

By the time we reach his apartment, Till has gone from monosyllables to silence. Briefly, I wonder if he treats all his shags like this; then I remember that most of them barely last the three-minute mark at the back of the tour-bus. Easy gratification is simpler from a chemical fix, and the results last longer, too. Only problem is, it'll kill you eventually. But even that's too fast - Till likes to kill himself slowly, one tortuous step at a time, dragging himself through the mire of ambition and shattered dreams.

At the top of the stairs we pause. He fumbles with the keys and makes great play at opening the door. When he drops the fob, he curses under his breath and bends down to retrieve it. He's down there long enough to light a cigarette, and then all is well with the world: when he rises, he does so gracefully, even happily.

"Come in," he says, and I follow. He wanders through the living-room, trailing curls of smoke that linger in the light, and he comes to a halt beside the window. Cautiously, I make my way across the floor towards him, suppressing my own nagging need for a cigarette, the craving set up by the scent of his Marlboros. As before, in the museum, I'm standing too close, invading his space. He recoils a little, his fingers trembling very slightly when he puts the cigarette to his lips. And as before, it's me who makes the first move.

I tug at his arm, forcing him to take the cigarette away, and then I lean forwards and kiss him. As soon as we touch, he closes his eyes. I keep mine open. He tastes of beer and nicotine, his mouth cold. I think I like the flavour of the cigarettes rather than him, because I twist myself closer to take more. Tentatively, he puts his free hand on my hip and lets it rest there without intent. The kiss deepens, although our contact is still far from intimate. When he turns his head, I feel the brush of his fringe tumbling against my forehead. It makes me shiver with the sheer thrill of it, and as he senses my reaction, he tightens his grip on me.

We both forget that he's holding a lit cigarette until he breaks away from me abruptly with a muffled yelp. "Fuck!" He drops the thing on the floor and stamps over-enthusiastically at the rug until it's smeared with ash, and then he mopes, saying again sorrowfully: "Fuck."

"I thought that was the general idea," I say.

He gives me a wan smile. "But what if it's not a good idea?"

I watch, stunned, as he retreats to the sofa and drops down amongst the cushions. Talk about mood-swings. I'm a little bit annoyed, but I think before I speak, and so say: "Till… Are you…?"

He puts his hands over his face. "Terrified," he states. "I don't want to fuck this up. I already have, though. Shit."

Compassion moves me to go and sit with him. He's already scrabbling for the next cigarette, but he can't seem to manage it one-handed. The foil has crumpled up on itself, making it difficult to flip out a smoke, and in despair he shakes the packet so hard that the cigarettes scatter over the arm of the sofa and onto the floor.

The only time I've seen him this nervous before is right before he goes on stage. Then, he has to think himself into a state of fugue. I don't want him to be like that with me. I reach across him and grab the carton, tossing it onto the floor. He mutters in faint protest. "Don't," I say. "Leave it."

It strikes me then that this whole situation has turned itself around. In the museum, I was the one uncertain and afraid. Now it's Till. I wonder if he planned it this way, knowing that nothing makes me feel more secure than the chance to take charge and fuss. He's rarely spontaneous, each gesture made with the maximum of thought, but this time I get the impression that it really was an impulsive offer. Only a regretted impulse would make his expression so hunted.

"This is supposed to be about freedom, right?" I ask, putting my hand in the centre of his chest. His sweater is slightly scratchy against my palm, and I decide that I don't like it. I pull up the hem, bunching the wool into a roll, until I touch bare flesh. He flinches, sucks in his breath as if afraid that I'll make some comment on his body. I say nothing, but spend a few moments looking at him. The contrast is marked between black sweater, black trousers, and pale skin. He's stood naked in front of me before, but when I ask him to take off his sweater now, he's shy. I help him, and, to ease matters along, I discard my shirt. The scent of his cologne mixes with mine, making for a strange combination. His gaze flickers over my chest beneath the tight black vest, and I know what's going through his mind.

"D'you think I care?" I ask, allowing my fingers free rein to travel where they will. I brush through the rough curls of hair, stroke his ribcage, and linger over the scars across his belly. They're barely noticeable these days, just narrow scrolls of silvery flesh, but he goes absolutely still when I touch them. I move on, murmuring my appreciation of the contours beneath my hand. Till is the only one of us who is either constantly trying to gain weight, or trying to lose it again. Before a tour he bulks up, only to dwindle away nightly. In fallow periods such as now, when he's feeling lost, he puts the weight back on. He'll always look good, but he doesn't work at it like I do. And so I guess he's self-conscious.

"I care," he says, almost panicked. "What if -"

I shut him up by kissing him, and manage to wriggle my way around so that I'm lying on top of him. I get the idea that he thought this little exercise was about pleasuring me. Well, hell, I'm all for that – eventually – but right now my priority is to get my hands on him good and proper. I manage to work loose his belt and start on his zipper. Till breaks the kiss to protest at my actions. He would, wouldn't he.

"This was supposed to be about -"

"You," I finish for him. "You, Lindemann. All for you. Now lie back and enjoy it."

He's suitably chastened, and he does as he's told. I always knew he had a submissive streak, and I decide that this could work in my favour. I slip my hand inside the open zip and feel him up, slowly but surely. He's already hard, the veins ridged against the thin cotton of his shorts. Impatiently I free him, closing my fingers around the heat of his erection and squeezing experimentally, tight, loose, tight again. His eyelids flutter closed and he groans softly.

I look up at him, hoping I'm doing all right. It's remarkably easy to jerk off another guy. I surprise even myself with this thought. Then I realise that I must be doing something wrong. Instead of the look of blank pleasure that I know fixes itself to my face whenever I'm having a wank, Till's expression is rapt, drawn and as agonisingly, serenely beautiful as a Piéta. Tears are glistening at the corner of his eyes, wetting the lashes into spikes, and immediately I release my grip, confused.

"Please," he whimpers; and then I understand. My wedding ring was cutting into his flesh, forced tight against his cock, and it must have been painful. I hesitate, and he pushes my hand back towards his groin. "Please, Rich. Do it again."

"No!" I snatch my hand away, horrified, and he mewls in disappointment, his head moving restlessly from side to side as he searches for a new way for me to cause him pain.

I won't allow it. "Oh Christ, Till, no," I say sadly. "Don't ask me to hurt you."

He opens his eyes, and they hold such an expression of sadness that it takes my breath away like a punch in the gut. "You know my reputation," he reminds me. "I can never be free of this. It's who I am."

"I can change your mind," I say fiercely.

He smiles. "You can try."

The challenge makes me determined. I can make this work. He gives himself over to me so completely that I wonder if he's ever been so unguarded before. When he tries to escape me, closing his eyes on pleasure and mentally seeking out some memory to hurt him, I call him back – steady, insistently. We take it slow, and even though it's just me bringing him off with my hand, we do it together, our gazes locked even when he struggles to deny me. And strange, convoluted dance though it is, it's also the most deeply intimate sexual act I've ever been a part of.

Afterwards, we settle together on the sofa in silence, and I wait for him to speak.

"That was…" he begins, and then he breaks off, struggling with his poet's vocabulary to find a suitable word. He fails, and so lies back with one arm trailing to the floor. Soon enough, his fingers walk themselves over to the scattered cigarettes, and he fumbles in his pocket for a lighter.

I lie with my head on his chest, feeling the deep inhalation and imagining the buzz of nicotine in his bloodstream. For the first time, I'm not tempted to join him in this little ritual. Instead I listen to the beat of his heart and the slight rasp of his breath. I close my eyes when he puts his free hand to my forehead, and then he strokes through my hair and says my name, slowly and with wonderment. I feel satiated in the glow of his affection, and it's like nothing I've ever experienced before.

"You're right," I say drowsily. "It is just a matter of perspective."

A chuckle rumbles from deep inside him. "I'm always right, Richard. You know that."

I know it now. And I'll never have to miss my freedom again.


End file.
